


January

by lemonsorbae



Series: Shoe Box Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/pseuds/lemonsorbae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just for the record this WAS posted in January, but only on <a href="http://jimmynovakisaved.tumblr.com/post/74993453469/january">tumblr</a>. I didn't have access to ao3 until now. Sorry! Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote>





	January

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the record this WAS posted in January, but only on [tumblr](http://jimmynovakisaved.tumblr.com/post/74993453469/january). I didn't have access to ao3 until now. Sorry! Enjoy.

Castiel slides his paintbrush along Dean’s bare chest, the acrylic paint going on smooth and thick, coating Dean’s skin in vibrant reds and a stark white. Dean’s eyelids flutter marginally at the sensation, but other than that, he doesn’t move. Castiel suspects the other man has fallen asleep.

He tilts his head to get a different perspective of the intricate artwork on Dean’s chest, an anatomical heart framed by a set of ribs, and fills in anything that looks off or drab, putting just as much effort into something that will only ever be seen by the two of them as he does the work he intends to sell.

There’s something cathartic about painting on Dean, calming in a way he didn’t expect when he’d first posed the idea to his boyfriend several months ago. It had been a game really, to see if Dean would actually allow Castiel to use him as a canvas, but after Dean had agreed and Castiel had seen the way the paint looked on Dean’s body, the beauty compared to nothing else and Castiel had become obsessed. Now he’s got a drawer full of Polaroids of Dean covered in his artwork.

Castiel puts the finishing touches on Dean’s skin then drops his brush onto the pallet of paint he’s been using. He shifts his weight where he’s straddling Dean’s hips and leans over the other man, placing a hand on either side of Dean’s head. He studies Dean’s face, the light spattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the line of his thick eyelashes, and smiles to himself.

Leaning down he places a soft kiss to both of Dean’s eyelids and then murmurs “I’m done,” against Dean’s slightly parted lips. Dean flickers sleepy green eyes open and looks up at Castiel.

"Hmm?" he asks.

"I’m done," Castiel repeats.

Dean casts his eyes at his chest, examining the drying paint. “Oh shit,” he says rubbing at his eyes, “sorry I fell asleep.” His eyes rove back up to Castiel’s and he offers a weak grimace.

"Don’t be," Castiel reassures the other man, "you were a very good boy."

Dean’s cheeks go pink with the compliment and Castiel offers him a smirk before he moves back in to fix his lips against Dean’s again.

Dean lifts his arms, one snaking around Castiel’s lower back and the other moving up to entangle fingers into Castiel’s hair, and licks his way into Castiel’s mouth. Their kisses are slow and lazy and when Castiel tries to pull away Dean pulls him down on top of himself, pressing their chests together and eliciting a huff from Castiel.

"Dean, your paint isn’t dry!" Castiel protests as Dean peppers Castiel’s face with kisses. He can feel some of the paint transferring onto his own skin, the slippery rub of it against his chest, but Dean just tightens his grip and kisses Castiel some more.

Castiel retaliates by rooting along the underside of Dean’s jaw and down his neck until he finds a tender spot and fixes his mouth to it. He sucks graciously, smiling when he feels Dean suck in a gasp, and doesn’t stop until he’s sure there’s an angry red mark left in his wake.

”Did you just give me a hickey?” Dean asks, his grip loosening on Castiel.

"Yes," Castiel answers, burrowing against Dean, his face tucked in the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder, and sliding his hands underneath Dean until they’re pressed against the other man’s shoulder blades.

Dean’s hands begin to rub up and down Castiel’s bare back. His palms are warm and gentle and Castiel shivers just a little under the touch.

They lay there for a few quiet, blissful seconds, Castiel’s eyelids beginning to droop, the paint on their chests beginning to dry, when Dean’s voice cuts through the air.

"Babe, you feeling okay?" he asks, his hands stilling on Castiel’s back, "You feel kind of warm."

"I’m fine, Dean."

 Dean doesn’t speak, but Castiel can feel a protest on the tip of the other man’s tongue so he pushes himself up and looks down into Dean’s face.

"You should shower now so we’re not late to the movie," he says looking down at Dean’s chest. The paint is nearly dry and still in fairly good shape after being rubbed against Castiel.

"What about you?" Dean asks, "You got a little something there," he waves his hand in front of Castiel’s chest were the paint transferred onto Castiel’s skin, "you gunna shower with me?"

Castiel fixes his gaze on Dean’s and offers a coy shrug of his shoulder. “Maybe.”

Dean rolls his eyes and Castiel slides off the bed and pads over to where he keeps his Polaroid camera, Vincent darting out from underneath the bed and twining around his feet as he walks. When he gets back to the bed, Dean is sitting up, ready to have his picture taken. Castiel moves him into the right lighting and snaps a picture and then leads Dean into the bathroom.

On the way to the old theatre downtown Castiel rubs at the back of his neck. It’s stiff and tender under the pressure of his finger tips and he winces at the touch, but continues to massage at it. When it doesn’t loosen up any Castiel lowers his hand in a quiet frustration and presses further into the seat.

"What’s wrong?" Dean asks, casting a glance in his direction as they come to idle at a red light.

"My neck is stiff," Castiel admits and then quickly adds, "but it’s fine." He can feel Dean’s stare on him and he’s grateful Dean can’t see his eyes past the dark lenses of the aviators Castiel is wearing.

"Are you sure you’re feeling okay?" Dean questions, his voice coming out accusatory and concerned.

"Peachy," Castiel says offering Dean a cheeky grin and steering himself from the overbearing clutches of Dean’s mother hen nature.

Dean shakes his head and mutters, “Stubborn fucker,” as he rolls through the green light.

Jo and Victor are already at the theatre when Dean and Castiel arrive. Jo makes a jab at Dean for taking too long to primp and then points out the very visible hickey on Dean’s neck saying, “You missed a spot, Winchester.”

Dean blushes deeply and Castiel slides out of the way as Dean grabs Jo and tucks her under his arm, rubbing his knuckles along her scalp.

"Animals," Victor comments with a shake of his head. Castiel nods and follows him up to the ticket booth.

The theatre is dim and cool when they enter. There are a few people already in their seats, but the movie house is mostly empty. The four of them shuffle into a row towards the back and Castiel slides low in his seat, tucking his jacket more tightly around him to stave off the shiver that runs through him. As soon as he’s in his seat he feels tired, his limbs immediately growing heavy, and when Dean is settled next to him Castiel slumps against his shoulder.

"You’re going to sleep through the whole movie, aren’t you?" Dean states more than asks.

"Probably," Castiel yawns against Dean’s shoulder. He hadn’t planned on it, but as soon as the lights go out and the opening credits roll, Castiel drifts off into a light slumber.

When they get home Castiel refuses dinner and goes straight for the couch.

The ache in his neck is spreading to his shoulders and back and he’s cold despite the flush he can feel rising in his cheeks.

He pulls the afghan off the back of the couch and wraps himself in it before sitting down, a deep vee settling between his eyebrows as he scowls at the air in front of him. He sits that way until Dean’s finished eating and joins him on the couch and then Castiel is tumbling over into Dean’s lap and closing his eyes.

"Still gunna insist you’re feeling okay?" Dean asks.

"Fuck you," Castiel mutters against Dean’s thigh.

He hears the television flick on and once Dean has settled on a channel he begins to card gentle fingers through Castiel’s hair. Castiel gives himself over to the calming touch and between one breath and the next he falls asleep.

When Castiel claws his way to wakefulness the next day he’s in his and Dean’s bed. The curtains have been pulled shut, he’s in nothing but his underwear and white undershirt, and every inch of him hurts.

There’s a pressure in his head, like waves crashing against a shoreline, rolling, and foaming, and angry, and his throat is so swollen it hurts to swallow. And he’s cold; all over.

Castiel groans into his pillow and burrows deeper into the blankets piled on top of him.

"You awake?" Dean’s voice sounds distant and cautious in his ears and all Castiel can do is moan in response. He hears the sound of soft footsteps crossing the apartment and then a shadow is looming over him and a cool hand is pressing against his forehead.

"You’re still really warm," Dean states. He’s gone for a few seconds and then Castiel feels the blankets being lifted and Dean’s fingers curl around Castiel’s upper arm. "Sit up," he says, "you need to get some liquids into your system."

"No," Castiel pouts, "sleep." He tries to wiggle out of Dean’s grasp, but lacks the energy needed to continue so his fight is short lived. He allows Dean to pull him into a sitting position, but keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t wipe the scowl from his face.

Castiel feels the bed shift beside him and hears Dean let out a low laugh. “Bet you’re going to think twice about not getting your flu shot next year, huh?” he asks.

Castiel forces his heavy eyelids open and squints angrily at Dean. “Dean I am ill,” he states, the irritation he’s feeling apparent in his voice, “I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from speaking condescen-“

Castiel sputters around the straw Dean’s just pushed into his mouth for a few seconds and then reluctantly closes his lips around the plastic and takes a small sip. The liquid is thick and filmy and tastes like cheap orange flavoring.

Castiel coughs and pulls away from the straw.

"What the hell is that?" he asks running a hand over his mouth.

"It’s Pedialyte," Dean answers.

Castiel’s scowl deepens, “It’s foul,” he grumbles.

"Yeah well, open up, buttercup, you need to drink some more," Dean instructs. He pushes the straw to Castiel’s lips again and waits patiently for Castiel to allow it in. All Castiel really wants is to lie down and fall into the dark relief of sleep again, but he knows Dean is incessant in his care giving and so he opens his lips and sucks on the straw again, breathing through his nose as best he can.

Dean doesn’t pull the straw away until Castiel has emptied the cup and that’s when it occurs to him to ask where the offensive drink came from in the first place.

"Since when do we have Pedialyte in the apartment?" he asks.

"I went to the store while you were out," Dean explains, "got some Gatorade and some stuff to make soup, too."

"You couldn’t have given me the Gatorade?" Castiel grumbles.

Dean clears his throat, an annoyed, grating sound, before pointing out, “You would’ve bitched no matter what I put in your cup.”

"Not if it were coffee," Castiel gripes.

Dean sighs, but does not respond.

Castiel thinks he’s in the clear, is just readying to lower himself back into the cocoon of blankets calling his name from the bed when Dean pulls at his arm to hold him up.

"Hold on, Cas," he says, "I need to check your temperature again."

"Dean," Castiel protests.

Dean shushes him and sticks a thermometer in his mouth, maneuvering it underneath Castiel’s tongue, and then instructs Castiel to close his mouth. Castiel’s eyelids droop again and his brain starts to fog over as he sits and waits.

When Castiel hears the thermometer beep, he peels his eyes open. “May I please go back to sleep now?” he asks. He watches Dean glance at the thermometer and then shake his head.

"Nope," Dean answers, "you’re at 101."

"So."

"So, that’s still too high," Dean points out. He stands, thermometer in one hand and Castiel’s empty cup in another, and takes them to the kitchen. "I’ll be right back," he says, "do not go back to sleep. I mean it, Cas, I’ll just wake you up again if you do."

Castiel watches as Dean disappears into the bathroom and within a few seconds the sound of rushing water fills the apartment and Dean is coming back out of the bathroom. He shuffles around in their dresser for a few moments and when he’s found what he’s looking for he approaches the bed again.

"Alright," he says, "let’s go."

Castiel allows himself to be led into the bathroom, and then offers absolutely no help as Dean strips him out of what little clothing he’s wearing.

"You’re such a child," Dean mutters as he pulls Castiel’s t-shirt over his head and tosses it to the side.

"I’m ill," Castiel reminds him. It’s probably not as good of an excuse as he thinks it is, but in his fever muddled brain it’s completely valid.

Soon Castiel is naked and being nudged towards the bathtub.

"Get in," Dean says as he places steadying hands on Castiel’s hips. Castiel lifts one leg over the edge of the tub and dips his foot into the water. It’s not hot like he expected it to be, but lukewarm instead and completely undesirable.

"It’s cold," Castiel states even though he’s certain Dean already knows this as he’s the one who filled the bathtub with water. His body tremors with shivers and he wraps his arms around himself to try and keep himself warm.

"Hey," Dean says coming up behind Castiel and wrapping warm, gentle arms around him, "I’m gunna get in with you, okay? I just need to get undressed. Now get in."

Castiel complies, stepping into the tub and curling himself into a ball as he sits and waits for Dean. Soon Dean’s warm body slides in behind his and Castiel feels Dean’s legs bracket his own. He leans back pressing his back to Dean’s chest and letting his head drop onto Dean’s shoulder.

Dean drapes something over him, a towel, if the rough slide of terrycloth is anything to go by, before slipping his arms underneath it and crossing them over Castiel’s midsection. Within a few minutes Castiel’s shivers subside and he melts further into Dean’s comforting touch.

"You okay?" Dean mutters quietly in his ear. Castiel nods marginally and then settles into a light, cumbersome sleep.

Sometime later he’s pulled awake by Dean gently pushing him forward and telling him it’s time to get out. He’s not sure how long Dean let him sleep in the tub, but it doesn’t feel long enough.

Dean helps him out of the tub and pulls the plug out of the drain, the sound of water being sucked down the drain echoing through the bathroom as they pull their clothes on.

When they’re both dressed Dean is placing a hand on Castiel’s lower back and guiding him out of the bathroom, intercepting him when Castiel tries to go for the bed.

"You need to eat," he explains leading Castiel to the couch instead, "I’ll warm up some soup."

Castiel huffs, but lowers himself on to the couch and pulls the afghan around him once more, pressing his side against the back of the couch and twisting his body awkwardly until his head can rest on the armrest. He dozes until Dean is hovering above him again, bowl of soup in hand.

"That can’t be comfortable," Dean states as he nudges at Castiel’s head with a few fingers. Castiel sits up and blinks tired blue eyes up at the other man, his brain only focusing marginally on the frame standing before him.

Dean holds the bowl of soup up. “Soup,” he says, “you gunna be a man about it?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just pushes his arms out of the afghan and waits until Dean places the bowl in his hands.

He eats quietly, alternating between the tomato rice soup Dean made earlier while he was asleep, and a light purple liquid that tastes significantly better than the Pedalyte. When he’s eaten enough to satisfy Dean, Dean takes the dish from his hands and dumps it in the sink coming back with the thermometer again.

Castiel doesn’t protest as Dean works it into his mouth.

"Getting there," Dean states mostly to himself after the thermometer has beeped and he’s assessed Castiel’s temperature.

And then finally, “Alright, baby, back to bed.”

Castiel shuffles over to the bed, taking the afghan with him, and lays down on the bed, folding himself into the fetal position. As soon as his head hits the pillow, his brain starts to lose its grasp on wakefulness, giving in instantly to that all too welcoming respite of sleep.

Distantly he feels the bed dip beside him, strong, gentle arms encircling him, pulling him closer to a warm chest, and that’s when he finally lets go.

Three days later Castiel wakes up just as the sun is rising outside. The sky still holds its sleepy glow, sherbet colored clouds filtering out the last vestiges of stars that twinkle in the dawn light, and a quiet sort of contentment envelops their apartment that Castiel hasn’t felt in days.

Vincent squints at him from the windowsill where the cat has perched himself for the morning and Dean rests quiet and still next to him, probably just as worn out from taking care of Castiel as Castiel is from being sick.

As Castiel watches the sun rise in the sky, casting a yellow glow over Dean’s freckled shoulders and providing just enough natural light to be useful, his fingers itch to sketch. He hasn’t worked on his art for almost four days now, never feeling well enough to, and now the need to create, to memorize, and capture, to  _eternalize_  runs through his veins like a tangible presence.

He reaches blindly behind him for his sketchpad and bag of chalk that he keeps on the nightstand and sits up ever so slowly, trying not to rustle the sheets. When his chalk first hits the rough, white page of his sketchbook it’s like he can finally breathe again for the first time in days. The lines are soothing, the image flying from his finger tips, coming out in smudges and bursts of color, and when he’s finished he feels lighter.

Next to him Dean stirs, rolling onto his back and settling a hand over his chest and a small smile tugs at the corners of Castiel’s lips as he takes in the man beside him. Dean had been painstakingly diligent in his caring for Castiel over the last few days and Cas is filled with an overwhelming warmth that such a wonderful man has come into his life and carved out a place for himself in Castiel’s heart.

No longer in need of its fulfillment Castiel sets his sketchpad and chalk off to the side and maneuvers himself against Dean’s side, placing a hand on one of Dean’s cheeks and pressing his lips against the other. It’s quiet and tender, Dean leaning into Castiel’s touch even in sleep, and Castiel smiles against the bit of stubble that’s taken over Dean’s face from neglect.

After a moment he moves to Dean’s jaw line, kissing here, biting softly there, until Dean begins to wake beside him, and then his lips travel down to Dean’ neck, sucking gently in the same spots he’d left bruises a few days prior.

"Cas?" The other man says, his voice cracking from disuse and his hand coming up to rub at his eyes.

Castiel shifts until he’s propped up on his arms, hovering over Dean’s sleepy face. “Good morning, Dean,” he says before moving in to press his lips against Dean’s. Want is beginning to curl low in his belly, need surging through his veins, and suddenly Dean isn’t waking up fast enough.

"Babe, what are you doing?" Dean asks, his hands scrubbing over his face.

"Well," Castiel starts, batting Dean’s hands out of the way and leaning in again. He brushes his nose against Dean’s and kisses Dean again before continuing, "I’ve been thinking," he says, moving to push his hands underneath the hem of Dean’s shirt, feeling along his ribs and chest. He doesn’t stop until Dean’s shirt is bunched up around his armpits and then he quirks an eyebrow at Dean until Dean sits up enough for the shirt to be pulled over his head. At the sight of so much delicious bare skin Castiel bends over his boyfriend and begins to pepper kisses to the other man’s collar bone, his shoulders, and sternum.

"You took such good care of me while I was sick," he continues between kisses, "that I’d like to return the favor."

He moves down Dean’s body with his lips, taking a brief moment to nuzzle at the softer part of Dean’s stomach that Dean complains so much about, before hooking his fingers in the waistband of Dean’s underwear and pulling them down and off in one quick movement.

Dean’s eyes fly open, his hard length curving towards his belly.”Cas are you -“

Castiel doesn’t wait for Dean to finish before taking him in hand and swallowing him down whole. As soon as Dean hits the back of his throat Castiel has to remind himself to breathe through his nose, but his body adjusts to the feeling quickly and he starts to suck with a ferocious kind of determination.

"Shit-  _fuck_ ,” Dean groans out.

Castiel hums contentedly around him and continues to suck.

Minutes later, after Dean comes down Castiel’s throat and Castiel pulls off with an obnoxious pop of his lips, Dean reaches down and wraps a hand around Castiel’s arm, tugging him up and closer to him.

"C’mere," he says, his eyelids still heavy and a lazy smile crawling across his face.

Castiel complies, placing himself once more to where he’s leaning over Dean, and looks down into Dean’s sated green eyes.

Dean drags him down for a kiss, the affection slow and lazy, and then rests a hand on Castiel’s hip and one on his back. “I’d ask how you’re feeling, but judging by the awesome blow job I just received I’d say you’re doing okay.”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow at him, “Just okay?” he asks.

"Well," Dean says, "I’m still not entirely sure I wasn’t dreaming so… I might need further proof you really are feeling better. You know, just to make sure."

Castiel nods, “Of course,” he repeats.

He leans in and takes Dean’s lips against his own once more and they spend the rest of the morning finding out just how much better Castiel is actually feeling.


End file.
